Changes
by Poison Ivory
Summary: Just a short, pointless little vignette I felt like writing...A sort of ode to the Sunset Arms, in a way...


Author's Note: Yeah, something wanted me to write this, so I did.  It's pointless and predictable, but it was fun.  Yeah.  Enjoy!  Oh, and I don't like the title, so if you have a better one, lemme know…

Disclaimer: Arnold and the gang are not mine, although Craig does let me keep them under my bed and feed them milk and cookies.

Changes 

Sometimes buildings live forever.

            Buildings in the city, though, seem as transient and ephemeral as dandelion fluff on the wind.  A delicatessen on the corner becomes a hardware store becomes an ice cream parlor becomes a barbershop.  Backyards disintegrate into vacant lots that are turned into soup kitchens or churches or pet shops…or baseball fields.  Vast trees that seemed like fortresses in childhood are chopped up for lumber, while a Starbucks or a Blockbuster moves in to replace them.  Parks are paved over; schools stand vacant for decades.

            You've been in the old neighborhood for less than an hour now, and already you see that things have changed.  Slaussen's, your favorite soda shop, where the fifteen flavors of ice cream were handmade and the owners knew you and your friends by name, is now a Baskin Robins.  One hundred and fifty-two flavors of ice cream, and still your favorite, Chocolate Cherry, is missing.

            You know that your parents sold your childhood home long ago, but it's still bizarre to walk by it now and know that you can't just run in like you used to.  You see a strange woman walking in with her arms full of groceries, two little children tagging along after her, dragging a piece of yarn behind them in some imaginary game.  You wonder who sleeps in your bedroom now, if the wallpaper's been changed, or the carpeting.  You picked it out yourself, when you were five—it hurts to think of it being replaced by some garish paint from Home Depot.

            Good old P.S. 118, your elementary school, has lain dormant for over twenty-five years now—since right after you graduated.  The flood in fourth grade did permanent damage that two years of repairs couldn't fix.  They closed it down and shipped all the faculty across town.  You never saw them again, but last week you got the letter.  Your favorite teacher, Mr. Simmons, had passed away.  Cancer.  The funeral brought you back here, to the town where you'd grown up.

            You saw everyone from school at the funeral.  Everyone…except the person you really wanted to see.  That unaccounted for someone that had lurked in the back of your memory for the decade you'd been apart.  The person you're going to see now.

            You pass by Gerald Field, and are relieved to see that some things never change.  A group of kids, maybe eight or nine, are intent on a game of baseball—so intent that they don't notice you, standing there watching them.  A little girl, younger than the rest, gets up to bat, strikes out.  The pitcher lets her have one last try, and she belts it deep into left field.  You smile as the left fielder, stunned out of his daisy-picking slumber, fumbles for the ball in the overgrown grass.

            Green Meats, you notice, is gone, as is Mrs. Vitello's, El Paso, and the arcade.  Suddenly, you begin to worry.  What if it's not there anymore?  It's been years…what if nothing, really, is the same?

            But there it is, standing with a sort of humble strength, set against a backdrop of a watercolor sunset.  The old bricks are lit by the dying sun, a warm red the exact color, you think, of warmth.  Curtains flutter in the tiny windows; something you can barely see—a skylight—glitters on the roof.  You expect to see the door open, and a hoard of animals rush out—but the door doesn't move.

            Then you realize that the sign proclaiming the old building's name is gone.  In its place, a For Sale sign.  And beneath it, in painfully bright block letters, "Sold."

            Your heart sinks.  Of course.  It couldn't still be here, after all.  What were you thinking?

            You gaze up at the highest window.  You remember how you used to stare up there, daydreaming about its inhabitant.  Sometimes you were lucky and he would pass by the window, shaking golden hair out of his eyes, and you knew you were the most fortunate person on earth, to know how truly wonderful he was.

            You sigh.  That was years ago.  He didn't come to the funeral, of course he's not going to be here in town.  Especially here, in this house.  You're surprised it wasn't demolished years ago.

            As you turn to go, the sound of a door opening behind you makes you pause.  You stop, half-turn, from instinct.  And then the figure in the doorway arrests you and your jaw literally drops and you can't move from the spot you've frozen in, can't tear your eyes away.

            He's beautiful, framed in the doorway like that.  The same unruly golden hair you wrote books full of poems about is blowing gently in the breeze.  His eyes are so green you can see them from here.  He's lean and handsome and weatherbeaten and his skin is the color of warmth.

            No.  It can't be.  How can he still be here?  He doesn't live here anymore.

            "Do I know you, miss?" he asks, walking down the steps towards you.  "You look awfully familiar…"

            Oh, God.

            "Maybe…" you reply.  "Are…are you Arnold?"

            His eyes widen.  "_Helga_?"

            You blush.  "Right in one."

            "Oh my gosh, Helga…"  He comes towards you, scrutinizes you.  "You look absolutely beautiful."

            "So do you."  Did you honestly just say that.  "Uh…"

            "Um…thanks…"  He's blushing now, too.  "What are you doing in town?"

            "Simmons' funeral."

            He lowers his head.  "Oh, right.  I just found out today…I only got back from England this morning.  It's too bad, isn't it?"

            "Yeah.  He was a great man."

            "Yeah."

            You jerk your head towards the Sold sign.  "Just sell the boarding house?"

            "What?  No—oh, the sign.  No, no, I just bought it back, actually."

            "Really?"

            "Yeah, my grandparents sold it about ten years ago, and I only got the money to buy it back recently.  I'm gonna open it up again, but as an orphanage instead of a boarding house."

            "That's so nice."

            "Yeah, well, I figured not every kid's parents magically appear out of the jungle ten years later, and I might as well do what I can for them."

            "You always had those noble instincts."

            He laughs with you.  "Right."  He looks at you again.  "I've missed you, Helga."

            You thrill internally.  "Really?"

            "Yeah.  We were good together…for that little while."

            "Yeah…yeah, we were."

            He pauses.  "Do you…do you want to come inside for a cup of coffee?"

            You look up at him.  His eyes are wide, almost as innocent as the day you left them—you thought forever.  "Yeah," you say.  "Yeah, I'd like that."

            "Okay."

            Together, you climb the stoop, and as you enter the doorway his warm, callused hand squeezes yours—shyly, affectionately, protectively.  You smile, and squeeze his hand back.  Your other hand brushes the rough brick of the doorframe as you enter.

No, this building will never be torn down.  Most buildings in the city change hands, make way for the new every day.  But sometimes buildings live forever.

            They're kind of like love that way.

Like it?  Hate it?  Got a better title than my crappy one?  Give me a holler!  -PI


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